Several consecutive days of sunny weather in the Northern hemisphere, even this early in the year, herald the appearance of that sartorial sundowner, the G&T of the trouser world, the short or, to be accurate, shorts as they always travel in pairs. Calves are not only appearing in the byres and fields of this corner of France, but they are also to be seen protruding palely from these shorts as they perambulate their owners through the narrow winding streets of ancient villages on their annual Easter pilgrimage in search of the “real” France. The “real” France is actually on holiday with the Holy Grail, Huckleberry Finn and the Darling Buds of May but minds filled with memories of “A Year in Provence” will urge those pale calves to bear their owners fruitlessly onwards in their quest. Humans have never really got the hang of the pleasure of reading as they tend to treat the written word as truth even though it is more than likely nothing more than an opinion and often clearly labelled as fiction. Simon Cowell’s musings, though he himself is not a writer to my knowledge, must have created for him as many followers as a lightweight prophet and readers of newspapers such as the Daily Mail or the Sun have a seemingly unwavering belief in the opinions expressed therein. At this point I lost interest in my thoughts and went downstairs to cook, perchance to dream. The opinions residing in a good number of my cookery books seem valid as I eat and enjoy the results and even share them with others. Today I cut a passion fruit in half and realised that it not only tasted good, even better with crème fraiche and vanilla sugar, but that it looked rudely wonderful – but that’s just my opinion.